


An Improper Introduction

by JustOnlyGinger



Series: The Man and the Mare [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Premature Ejaculation, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 15:52:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11444130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustOnlyGinger/pseuds/JustOnlyGinger
Summary: Ivy loses his virginity, preparatory to beginning his career as a stud.





	An Improper Introduction

“Niles, really, this is rather unexpected. I don't think... that is, I hadn't considered it, he hasn't really been raised that way, and he's still so young, after all. Scarcely more than a weanling.”

“Sure, he's young, but he isn't a child. It was the first week of December when Cinnamon foaled, if I recall correctly-- I remember her first confinement when she was a young broodmare, how we all fussed over her... it was that year it rained all summer and the river flooded, nearly eighteen years ago now, wasn't it? Most breeding stallions are much younger at the start of their careers.” Niles holds his cup of tea in both hands, passes his fingertips over the rim, sets it down again on the low table in front of him. Beyond the table sits the mistress of the house, a woman of his longstanding acquaintance, owner of a very fine broodmare whose firstborn foal is now old enough to begin establishing a line of his own. His conformation is excellent; he's long and straight and sturdy, stands nearly six and a half feet tall though he's not yet fully grown. What's more, in spite of his imposing physique, he's docile as a lamb. A perfect slave, patient and obedient and gentle, possessed of great strength that he uses only in the service of his lady mistress. He's just the creature to breed Niles' prize mare; whether or not he has any previous experience with mating is immaterial.

“Goodness. Well, if you say so.”

“It's quite true, I assure you. Your Ivy may already be past his reproductive prime, but I'm willing to take that chance.” Niles laughs, and sips his cooling tea, and thinks of names he might give to the foal Ivy sires on his best mare. Perhaps he'll let her name the child, as Ivy's mother named him; though, as amply demonstrated by that example, broodmares tend to have odd ideas about suitable names for their offspring.

“I'll take very good care of him,” Niles presses. “Introduce him to the task slowly, make sure he isn't hurt or frightened. He'll be safe and comfortable in my stewardship. I know his mother's your favorite, and the boy promises to be everything she is. He's an exemplary slave now, isn't he? Your Cinnamon's line ought to be continued.”

“Are you certain, though? Isn't he too young and unproven for a mare of Maura's caliber?”

“Hardly. He'll do, and I'll have him, and we'll all be the better for it. Please say you agree, now, do me this small favor, won't you?”

“Oh, Niles. I know you, I know you'll care for him properly, but he's never been away from home before.”

“Don't you think he ought to, then, before he grows much older?”

“I suppose. Well, all right, I suppose you might have him, but only--”

“Three days. Three days only. Don't worry, he'll have the finest accommodations. I'll treat him like a prince, and I'm certain my Maura will take to him.”

“If you're absolutely certain--”

“My dear, you've already made up your mind.” More tea is poured, and the conversation turns to other matters, but Niles can't stop eagerly anticipating the great event, the breeding of two uncommonly fine slaves. Their foal, he's certain, will be remarkable, a show-quality creature, one he can display at fairs and festivals all over the Northern Territories.

When Niles leaves on the evening coach, Ivy's seated beside him, still but perfectly alert, his spine straight, his posture unimpeachable even though his head practically brushes the ceiling. His eyes are wide, taking everything in, and his face is so impassive, so utterly immobile that it might be carved out of stone. What an unusual slave he is, Niles thinks; even with the most rigorous training, most colts of his age-- young creatures scarcely out of foalhood- would find it difficult to sit so still, to give so little away. Ivy exhibits such control, and in Niles' opinion it has more to do with his nature than his training. At this point he hasn't even had a proper breaking in, which is unfortunate, but Niles would never dare criticize his dear friend's methods of managing her slaves.

At home, in Niles' front parlor, his own slaves rush to attend him, but he waves them off. He allows Ivy to remove his coat and boots and bring him his slippers; there's already a fire crackling in the grate, and Ivy kneels beside it waiting for further instructions.

“Now, Ivy,” Niles says, picking up the glass tumbler of slightly watered whiskey that's been placed on the table beside his favorite chair in anticipation of his arrival. “Do you know why I've brought you here? Your mistress has very kindly allowed me to borrow you for a specific purpose.”

“No, sir.” Ivy glances up, and Niles detects the briefest glimmer of apprehension in his eyes before they resume their former irreproachably correct downcast position. His lips part for a moment, as if he had meant to say something else, and then thought better of it. Niles can tell he's straining to maintain the appearance of the good slave, the perfectly correct and emotionless automaton, a mere object to be commanded. He is a well-behaved colt, but this is the first time he's been put in this situation, the first time he's been away from his mistress' home for more than an hour or two. It's natural for him to have misgivings, and Niles finds he quite enjoys the tension, watching Ivy suppress his fear and confusion and pretend to be perfectly at ease.

“You know how slaves are bred, don't you? They aren't all captured in the wild, I'm afraid.”

“Sir.”

“Yes, Ivy.”

“Sir, I don't... I don't really understand.” Ivy's trembling now, almost imperceptibly, and a light sweat has broken out on his forehead and neck. Really he's lovely like this, and Niles fully intends to enjoy him before letting him get on with his appointed task.

“It's simple. When a mare like your mother is old enough to bear young, a suitable stud is found. The stud mounts her and deposits his seed, which begins to grow in her womb. With any luck it becomes a foal, and that foal shares the traits of its sire and dam.”

Ivy nods, looks as if he's thinking, as if gears are turning rapidly inside that rather shapely skull of his. He remains kneeling, perfectly positioned, ready to be commanded: his head high, his back straight, his hands placed palm-down on his thighs. He looks pretty enough like that, but he could stand to be a great deal more naked.

“Of course I don't expect you to know how to mate. You've just been introduced to the concept, but a practical demonstration ought to straighten things right out.”

“Sir?”

“Please, if you would... remove your clothes so I can have a look at you.” Ivy betrays no misgivings, no reluctance, is quick and eager to please, seems quite thrilled to have been given an actual order. He leaps upright and begins divesting himself of his simple but very well-made and well-kept garments, and once he's finished he folds each one and lays it aside and places his boots and belt neatly next to the pile and resumes kneeling on the floor at Niles' feet.

“Stand up, dear.” Ivy obeys the order with grace and alacrity, and Niles stands as well and paces around him studying his apparently flawless body. Despite his great height, he doesn't seem the slightest bit awkward or disproportionate, nothing scrawny or spindly about him. Niles suspects his chest and arms and legs will continue to fill out as he grows, but they're unobjectionable now; firm and slender and sleekly muscled, covered with smooth taut skin that shows clusters of dark moles or freckles here and there but is otherwise unmarked.

“Perfect,” Niles says, reaching out to touch Ivy's shoulder, the projecting bulge of the scapula beneath the skin. “Your conformation is just as rare as I suspected. Indeed... could you be more beautiful?” Ivy's expression changes, registers a flicker of something that might be fear before returning to its usual studied neutrality. Certainly some reassurance is in order; the boy has no way of knowing, after all, what Niles is about to do to him.

“There now, dear, don't worry. You have nothing to fear from me.” Niles' hand travels upward, presses at the tensed muscles of Ivy's neck. “I won't hurt you, lovely boy. Your mistress has placed a great deal of trust in me, and I'd be a poor excuse for a gentleman if I didn't honor that trust.”

“What are you going to do?” Ivy blurts out, then adds sir as an afterthought. He's trembling now, his skin clammy to the touch, and Niles begins to stroke his back with slow soothing movements, up and down, over and over again. Ivy sways on his feet like he might collapse, and Niles takes him by the arm and lowers him to the floor. Once he's lying naked on the dark wool rug, he begins to breathe strangely, taking little gasps and sips at the air, and Niles realizes he's crying.

“Oh, goodness, no. None of that. Shh, shh, please don't be frightened, everything's quite all right.” More stroking, and soothing and muttering, and at length Ivy raises his tear-streaked face from his arms and speaks, biting back sobs, his voice quivering with misery.

“I'm sorry. Sir, I'm sorry...”

“It's all right, Ivy. You needn't be afraid. I promised your mistress I'd take care of you, you have absolutely nothing to fear.” Niles holds out his hand, and Ivy stares at it, still blinking back tears. Niles finds his heart hurting a little for this boy; simple, harmless creature that he is, having known nothing in his short life but pleasant captivity, splitting firewood and pulling weeds and clearing brush and sleeping every night on a straw mat by the kitchen fire with his broodmare mother by his side. Being brought outside the walls of his mistress' estate must seem to him like traveling to a foreign country.

“Look here,” Niles says, briskly, standing up and dusting himself off. “I'm going to leave you for a moment. Stay right where you are, I'll have one of the girls bring you some herbal tea to help you relax.” Ivy nods, and swallows, and he's no longer crying but his eyes are big and damp, and the look on his face is sort of injured and uncertain. Niles retreats to his bedroom, where he removes the smartly pressed trousers and shirt and vest he's been wearing all day, unties his cravat and strips off his undershorts and carefully unravels the long linen bandage he'd wound around his torso to flatten his breasts. When he returns to the parlor, he has nothing on but his ivory silk dressing gown, and Ivy looks up from sipping his tea with curiosity and trepidation.

“I must say, that's a bit better.” Niles reaches under his dressing gown and scratches at his chest, which has a tendency to sweat and chafe under the wrapping, but it's better than having these great foolish tits flopping about wherever he goes. He sees that Ivy's eyes are drawn to the motion, and that he's begun to blush, his nose and cheeks tinted bright pink with the warming of his blood.

“Have you ever seen anything like this before? Granted, they're not at all what they used to be, but what can one do?” Niles lets his dressing gown fall open and slip from his shoulders, displaying the vulnerable softness of his chest, the smooth white breasts drooping gently with age. Ivy continues to stare, his color deepening, a muscle visibly twitching at the corner of his mouth until he opens it and bites down hard on his lower lip.

“You're not a mare,” he says. “Sir. I don't... I still don't understand.”

“Precisely. I am a man, and I have always been, despite possessing too much flesh in some places and too little in others. Now what I'd like you to do is touch me as if I were a broodmare, as if you were tasked with breeding me.” Ivy's brow furrows in concentration, and he lifts one hand very deliberately and brings it to Niles' chest, where it hovers, unwilling to commit to touching anything. Niles finds himself holding his breath, impatiently anticipating the moment of contact.

“It feels good when you touch them,” he says, softly, not wishing to startle Ivy now that he's begun to settle down to his task. “You must be very gentle with a mare, and touch her where she likes to be touched, to make her receptive to breeding.” Ivy's hands are big and crook-knuckled and coarse, but their touch turns out to be wonderfully soft on Niles' sensitive skin. At first it's only a tentative brushing of fingertips; then Ivy begins to gather all that loose flesh in his hands, and there's the almost unbearably lovely friction of his callused palms on Niles' stiff nipples.

“Good lad,” he says, and Ivy seems to brighten at the praise, an uncertain smile twitching at one corner of his mouth. “That's how you work a mare, you see. Feel her tits and stick your tongue down her throat until her cunt gets wet.” He reaches up, grabs a handful of Ivy's curls and tugs lightly but urgently until Ivy brings his head down far enough for Niles to get at his mouth. At first it's like kissing a dead man, the jaw and lips hanging slack, the tongue lolling senselessly about until Niles begins to bite and suck on it. Then Ivy seems to understand, to grasp more completely the purpose of this exercise. He bites Niles' lips, tugs at them gently with his teeth, pokes his tongue into every crevice he can reach. His hands are immobile on Niles' tits, frozen in their clawed positions and growing clammier by the second.

“Wait.” Niles plucks at Ivy's fingers, and Ivy withdraws, looking sheepish, crossing his arms over his chest. “It's all right, dear. You're doing very well, only I rather think you'd be more comfortable if...” Niles lowers himself onto the chaise longue, his dressing gown now open along its entire length, his body embraced but fully displayed by the billows of pale silk. Ivy crouches over him, his muscular thighs spread, his cock hanging stiff and heavy between them. A beautiful thing, it must be said, in proportion with the rest of him, long and thick and very nicely shaped. Ivy knows what to do now, has allowed instinct to take over, the natural drive to mate that every male possesses.

“One more thing.” Niles takes a small flexible rubber disc from the pocket of his dressing gown and presses it into himself, wincing a little at the resulting friction; he's not as young as he used to be, but he continues to deny the need for artificial lubrication. “I shouldn't like to become pregnant myself. Then what would I do with all those expensive mares?” Ivy only grunts by way of answering. He's hard at work positioning himself, his knees propped apart and his lean thighs visibly flexed and straining. He has his cock in one hand, guiding it to Niles' cunt, which is primed and opened and ready to take him in.

“Go slowly at first,” Niles advises him. “It'll be a little dry.”

Niles closes his eyes, finds it nearly as marvelous just to feel Ivy's touch and hear his labored breathing as it is to see him in all his impeccably bred youthful glory. He feels the head of a hard cock part the lips of his cunt, then he hears a small almost comical sigh and feels a great deal of warm wet stuff spilling over his pubic mound and inner thighs. Ivy's ejaculated prematurely, which is not altogether unexpected, and in any case simple enough to deal with.

“There,” he says, “that feels all right, doesn't it? I know you've done that before.” More heavy breathing, some whimpering, muttering that very nearly sounds like words, and Ivy appears to be too ashamed of himself to speak. His legs are still spread, but his head is hung down, his chin tucked into his chest as if he's trying to hide his face.

“Oh, do stop that. You're not crying again, are you? Look at me, boy. Look at me. For the love of the Mother, Ivy, bring your head up.” Ivy's face is rigid and tear-stained, his eyes wide with chagrin, and Niles reaches up and strokes his hair, touches the side of his face, his cheek with its fine stubble, the bone of his eye socket sharp and prominent beneath the skin. “It's nothing to be ashamed of. It's rather to be expected in a colt of your age.” Niles keeps cradling Ivy's face with one hand, while the other slips down and investigates the large amount of fluid Ivy's just deposited on and inside him. His cunt lips are slippery with it, and he gathers more of the stuff on his fingers, presses it inside himself until his lately rather parched inner walls are slick and dripping and prepared to take a cock that might actually be the largest he's ever seen.

“Sir...”

“Yes, Ivy, what's the matter?”

“I'm not supposed to breed you.” 

“It's all right, dear. You can come inside me all you want, your seed is prevented from reaching my womb. Yes, I still have one, and I don't doubt it's in working order, but that's not the business at hand. Now carry on, I know you can get hard again, this ought not to take too long.”

“You're a free man. Why are you letting me mount you?”

“That's nothing for you to worry about.”

“Mistress told me... I'm supposed to sire a foal on your broodmare. She told me never to mount any other mares, to only do as I'm directed, to never...” Ivy hesitates, his brow once more furrowed in confusion. “If you're a man, why do you have the same parts as a broodmare?”

“I was born with them. I elected not to change. You can be a man just as well with a cunt as with a cock. I'm simply who I am, Ivy, as much as you are who you are. If you had a cunt, don't you think you'd be the same?”

“I don't know. I suppose I would. Sir.” Ivy glances down; attempting, Niles would guess, to imagine himself without all that dangling nonsense between his legs, those elaborately veiny pouches of flesh that most males consider so essential to their character.

“You would, you know. You would be just the same. The same strong, lovely, gentle, handsome creature.” Niles touches Ivy's chest, rests a hand between the smooth swells of his pectoral muscles, over his fluttering heart. Ivy's breath catches, and he tosses his head like a restive horse, and he flexes his great shoulders and lowers his head and seeks out Niles' lips with his own, and damned if the boy doesn't learn quickly. His kisses are still odd, tentative and searching, but he'll be broken of his shyness and hesitancy in due course. No need to rush things, Niles thinks, and speaking of which, he still has a cunt that's quite empty except for a substantial amount of Ivy's spend, which will no doubt start to become dry and sticky before very long.

“Here, now...” Niles reaches for Ivy's cock again, finds it swiftly hardening in his fingers as he strokes and squeezes, and Ivy grunts, and down goes his head again and he nuzzles and licks at Niles' chest, takes a stiffened nipple into his mouth and sucks at it fiercely, and Niles bucks and cries out and nearly rolls Ivy off of him, the warm ticklish pleasure of it going right to his cunt. Ivy rubs and ruts against him, breathing heavily like he's about to come again, and Niles retains the presence of mind to keep hold of his cock and guide it between the slick lips of his cunt, which part easily around it despite its uncommon size.

“I don't know how,” Ivy's saying, his face now pressed between Niles' tits. “I've never, before...”

“You know how to mate. It's instinctive, dear. You're doing it right now.” Ivy's hips roll in great heaving thrusts, motion as old as the tides, as unconscious as breathing, and Niles clings to him as best he can, locking his ankles at the small of Ivy's back and marveling at his strength and elegance in motion, as if this were exactly what he was made to do. When Ivy comes again, he shudders and sighs and his great body goes still and heavy on top of Niles, as if he might fall asleep right where he is. He stirs when Niles swats his shoulder, begins rather daintily to extricate himself from their sweaty embrace. Niles of course hasn't come yet, and he directs Ivy in this as well, presses Ivy's fingers into himself and rubs on them until he reaches orgasm; Ivy is astounded by this event, observes Niles' quivering and clenching with openmouthed awe.

“It's different when a mare comes,” he says, and Niles laughs and corrects him gently.

“I don't know. I suspect the sensation is much the same. True, with a cunt you can feel it over and over again, twice or three or four times or even more, it can be absolutely exhausting to tell you the truth.”

“So you can do it again? I can make you...” Ivy moves his fingers again, exactly the way Niles had directed him to, but Niles isn't in the mood to be poked and pawed at all night; though part of him wants to make the most of Ivy's eagerness, to use him thoroughly, to be brought to climax over and over again by the gentle rubbing and stroking of his patient fingertips.

“Not now, dear.” Niles rearranges his dressing gown, tucks it primly over his chest, wraps and reties the sash while Ivy looks on with transparent fascination.

“You're like a mare,” he says. “But not like one. I never saw a gentleman like you before.”

“Quite right.” Niles kisses Ivy, and ruffles his hair, and strokes his bony stubbled cheek. “Now. I'm going to bed, but I want you to meet me there, after you've bathed. The girls will come along and fetch you. Wait here a little while.”

“Sir.” Ivy lowers himself to the floor, where he kneels again, and seems to retreat into himself. He sits upright like a statue, with an air of patient expectation, his eyes open and alert but unseeing; Niles has the feeling that if he waved a hand in front of Ivy's face, he wouldn't blink.

“I'll see you soon, Ivy.” Niles speaks softly, taking care not to break the spell, and his footsteps are nearly silent as he slips out of the parlor and down the hall to his private washroom, where his own freshly-drawn bath is waiting for him.


End file.
